


no grave can hold my body down

by agentlithium



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Really Character Death, Post-Season/Series 04, Pre-Season/Series 05, Weird Romance, ed is a classic strange season 2 monster, no smut tho we gotta leave room for the holy spirit, some casual resurrection, some good ol self indulgent monster love, very rushed and dumb ending!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 10:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19392397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentlithium/pseuds/agentlithium
Summary: I'll crawl home





	no grave can hold my body down

**Author's Note:**

> wow my second monster au in a row huh? I really thought strange would make ed into some weird riddle monster when he saved him and lee, but he didn't. so I wrote this because I love the concept of someone who may look normal at a passing glance but when you get close, something just ain't right.
> 
> title and summary from work song by hozier because shit what's a monster fic without hozier?

Oswald Cobblepot was sovereign of the rabid degenerates. He paved his way in blood and marred flesh and rose above all. Above his enemies and adversaries, above his own cowardice, above all mortal men. Upon his pedestal of bone, he ruled with an iron fist of thin, feeble fingers curled so tight they could break. He lavished in what luxuries he could come by, but the power he possessed was more intoxicating than the finest of wines. He was a king in his own mind— a god, even. And what else could he do but play the part? Everyone would bow to the false idol, the King of Gotham, even Death itself.

But pride is a deadly thing and Oswald’s hubris left him blind to the truth: nobody can cheat Death. You may think you have won, but in time, Death will come and collect what is due.

Dr. Hugo Strange entered the room. He floated across the floor like a ghost. His long white coat was deceptively clean. He turned and calmly closed the large oak doors behind him. Oswald had been waiting for his arrival with bated breath. It was well into the wee hours of the morning, closer to dawn than dusk. His brow was dampened with sweat, his hair a dishevelled mess. He’d torn the top few buttons of his shirt open to hopefully allow some air into his aching lungs. His uneven pacing came to a skidding halt at the sight of Strange. He stammered and stuttered and panted until he could speak.

“Well?” he demanded.

Strange kept his back to the Penguin. He wordlessly stared at the glossy wood until his eyes blurred. He was stalling, an unwise choice. He bore the brunt of Oswald’s catastrophic tantrums before. However, Oswald wasn’t shouting or stomping about. Strange was a man of intelligence and it didn’t take a psychologist to pick up on the lack of bite in Cobblepot’s prompt. He was afraid. A fear he was doing a poor job of hiding.

But fearful or not, Strange was aware of his proclivity toward violence. Wait any longer and he would feel the sharp strike of Oswald’s patience running out.

“Mr. Cobblepot,” he began. He faced him, but never directly.

“This was a particularly difficult procedure. Dr. Thompkins was quite fortunate, as her wounds were far more superficial. Very little had to be repaired before she could be resuscitated. Once she awakens, she will be free to go, if she chooses. I predict her recovery will go smoothly.”

This did nothing to calm Oswald. She was not the one he was worried about. Strange sported his usual condescending, subduing smile. The same smile he gave to the raving lunatics in Arkham Asylum. Oswald knew it well. So well that he could see the almost imperceivable nervous twitch of his lip.

“But Mr. Nygma…”

Oswald couldn’t ignore how his throat tightened.

“Dr. Thompkins’ precision was nothing short of clinical. She delivered the most internal damage as possible, given her position and leverage. Mr. Nygma required the majority of the work done.”

Oswald attempted to interject, but Strange silenced him with a hand.

“Mr. Nygma is alive and well; however, given his injuries, we were forced to take some… creative liberties.”

_ Creative liberties. _

Oswald wished that he had surged forward then and broke all of Strange’s teeth or strangled him or beat him to the ground— anything. At the very least, he wished that he had asked about these ‘liberties’ taken. He was too distracted by his own distress to think about the implications. He was so close to losing Edward. He  _ had _ lost Edward. Strange continued to reassure him. He promised that nothing would be amiss. Oswald wouldn’t even notice that he had to essentially pump Edward full of this assorted chemical cocktail to keep him alive.

“If anything, Mr. Nygma will be better than ever.”

Oswald wasn’t listening. His body moved of its own accord. He limped past the rambling doctor and tentatively reached out to grasp the ornate handles of the twin doors. Strange’s calls for his attention fell on deaf ears. He pushed his way into the next room. Now, there was nothing left separating the hardly living from the barely deceased. Oswald remained in the entranceway. The sight before him had a still sort of symmetry. Edward and Leslie mirrored one another, lying supine on stiff gurneys. They slept soundly with pristine sheets folded down at their shoulders. They looked healthy and well. One couldn’t possibly tell that, only hours before, they had both been swiftly torn from Death’s certain arms.

Oswald felt faint.

He excused himself abruptly. City Hall was a grand, sprawling building of endless hallways and secluded offices. Staking his claim over it was a commendable choice on his part. He was familiar with the winding corridors from his time spent as mayor. Soon, he would have Gotham in his palm once more. With the city in chaos, a steady hand is necessary to restore order. Oswald had no appreciation for disorder or destruction. The lack of control reminded him of how truly small and insignificant he was. Without a reputation, weapons, or hulking bodyguards, he was just a limping target with a loud mouth. He had to fight, kill for the respect he deserved.

He hid away in a small office, far off in another wing of the building. He almost couldn’t hear the wailing of sirens or the hollering of maniacs running through the streets from where he was. He just needed a moment’s peace. A moment to clear his head, think of a plan, settle his nerves. He dug through the drawers of the large desk, dismayed to find not a hidden flask or bottle of cheap liquor.  _ What kind of boring yuppie worked here? _

He sat down in the leather chair and leaned back as far as it allowed. It was far from comfortable, but it was all he had. The long day quickly caught up with him and he didn’t bother to stave it off. He was taken by exhaustion in minutes.

Oswald would later look back on that night as the last time he would truly experience rest for some time.

Strange was right about Leslie. The next morning, she awoke. She gave the poor guard an awful fright, but she was likely more frightened than he. The guard, still pallid and shivering, relayed to Oswald what he missed. She sat bolt upright, a horrible screech pouring from her gaping mouth like a banshee. She bounded toward the young man and ripped the gun from his hand. She was strong enough to knock him over. She asked him a series of questions about where she was and what had happened to her. Oswald interrupted her interrogation when he came to see the source of the commotion, managing to catch Lee before she fled the scene. She swung around, the gun now trained on him. Her finger twitched over the trigger.

“Oswald.”

“Lee,” he calmly held his hands up in surrender.

“You… You brought—”

“Strange fixed you, under my command. You’re welcome, by the way. Edward is—”

Lee flinched at the name. Her face darkened. She appeared to be far more intimidating than she ever did as ‘Queen of the Narrows’.

“Did I kill him?”

“You did, yes.”

“You brought him back.”

“Yes, and I must implore you not to kill him again. Strange wasn’t exactly cheap to book. What a waste of my funds it would be.”

Lee laughed at him— an uncharacteristically harsh bark of sound.

“What a waste, indeed. I’m not required to stay, am I?”

“I suppose not. Mind you, Gotham has undergone quite the change since the bridges went down. Most of the refugees are at the GCPD, or so I’ve been told. I can arrange an escort to accompany you. It’s chaos out there.”

“I think it’ll be fine.”

“It’s your funeral. Freedom is right down that hallway,” Oswald shrugged and dropped his arms. The guard took this as his cue to escape, scrambling off to safety. 

Lee nodded and went to leave, but stopped.

“Why did you save me?”

“Consider it a favour. I’m fairly low on friends these days.”

She cast a glance to where Ed lay.

“Why did you save him?”

Oswald didn’t have an answer for her. He couldn’t even think of a lie. Lee laughed again, quieter.

“He’ll make you regret this, you know that.”

It wasn’t a question. She said it with a sureness that can only come from seeing someone else make the same mistakes you have. 

“I know.”

She walked out wearing the same torn clothes she was murdered in. The clicking of her boots echoed throughout the cavernous structure. Oswald heard her voice carrying back to him.

“And that’s the sad part.”

Oswald looked at Ed. Despite all the noise, he never stirred.

Oswald soon became rather preoccupied with organizing and plotting his rise to power. He gained control of a large factory on the edge of town, recruited a small army of men to be his enforcers, and even managed to acquire a few cases of wine— a luxury. He repurposed an office into a basic bedroom with a stiff mattress and broken frame. He was incredibly busy, but his mind never once strayed from Edward. It was foolish— no, it was absolutely insane to be fretting over the man who hurt him so much. It was even more insane that Oswald was sitting at his bedside every free second he had. He thought he was hiding his panic well. He rolled his eyes and huffed bored sighs. He politely informed any prying underlings that he was simply biting at the bit to kick Edward out on his ass. The moment he came to, he was on his own.

It was reminiscent of when Edward was the centrepiece of the Iceberg Lounge. He was motionless, like he had been frozen again. Oswald watched him just as he did before. Things were different now, of course. He wasn’t filled with acidic spite. He didn’t talk to Ed. He didn’t cry when no one was looking. His act of calmness really wasn’t much of an act. All he felt was a deep, heavy sense of dread over what would happen if Ed woke up. 

Last they saw one another, Ed had betrayed Oswald at the bank to prove his loyalty to the good doctor. He deluded himself into believing he loved Lee and— even less plausible— that he could make her love him back. Lee was smart enough to take advantage of the opportunity presented, but not smart enough to avoid falling victim to her own notoriously soft heart. She pitied him, saw him as something docile and domestic. He would hurt anyone without consideration, but not her. She let herself become comfortable with Ed an unassuming feature in her life. She never loved him, but he was her little lapdog. Her work-in-progress. She was going to make him good again.

Her fatal error was in believing that Ed was ever the kind, well-adjusted man he once seemed to be. It wasn’t her fault. Ed deceived everyone into thinking that he was just a harmless weirdo. He had poor Kristen Kringle convinced. But there was nothing good to revert to. A scared child, a reclusive youth, a repressed young man. He could only contain his violent urges until he lashed out and murdered another woman he lured into his trap with his constant pestering, stupid riddles, and desperate need for guidance and validation.

What had lured Oswald in?

He thought about his brief conversation with Lee often. When the nights at Edward’s bedside grew long and lonely, he ruminated on her words.

_ And that’s the sad part. _

He made her regret showing him kindness. She should have known it was foolish, getting her hopes up that maybe she could take one killer off the streets. For Edward, it was a game. It was always a game or a riddle or a joke with him. She knew when the game was over, but Ed wasn’t done playing. He was never done playing until he won. In this case, Oswald supposed it was a tie. Both died and both walked out alive. Lee learned from her mistakes and grew from it. She was never going to stop being a hero, but she certainly wouldn’t be suffering idiots like Edward gladly.

Oswald was _ sad _ , just like she said. He hated Ed. He’s supposed to hate him. He played Ed’s game and let him win, time and time again. Ed’s sleeping face taunted him. How could he be so serene while Oswald was drowning in an abyss of introspection? Oswald wanted to carefully slip the pillow from under his head and smother him with it. Ed wouldn’t struggle, like he knew what a privilege it was to die in such a gentle fashion. Oswald toyed with the fabric of the pillowcase between his fingers, contemplating for a minute or two, then he let it go.

_ Not tonight. _

Oswald didn’t notice Ed’s eyes fluttering open as he limped away to bed.

The next day crawled on just as the last had. Get up, eat what breakfast they managed to scrounge together, try to force a coherent thought from the band of absolute morons in his employment, stockpile resources, attempt to contact the outside, plan the next course of action, then sit with Ed until tired or unable to take the silence much longer. Soon, it would have been a week since Ed’s arrival, a week since Gotham descended into madness. Oswald was sure it had been much longer than that. He wouldn’t be surprised if he found that they were approaching a month now, but no. He had so much to do, so much he had already set in motion. He would have been impressed with his efficiency if he wasn’t completely worn out and miserable. He rarely had a second alone. And if he wasn’t running around City Hall, he was with Ed.

He didn’t know why he sat with him in the evenings. It wasn’t a source of comfort, it just made him feel sick. He wasn’t hoping to be there when Ed wakes, either. He almost hoped Ed would stay asleep. The fear of losing him was being surpassed by the fear of having him back. What if Ed hurt him again? What if he hurt Ed again? What if Ed simply left in the night, never to be seen again? Oswald couldn’t decide what was worse. At least if he died, there would be no ambiguity. It would be clean-cut, over. The end.

This was when Oswald decided to leave before he did something he might not regret. The room was dark, illuminated only by moonlight streaking in from the window. Oswald pushed himself out of his chair and stood. He looked Ed over once more. For the first time, he felt the urge to touch him. He was almost ashamed of the idea. Nonetheless, he acted. He trembled as he dragged his knuckles over a high cheekbone, sharp like the edge of a dagger. Ed was cold under his hand. Oswald averted his stare, drawing back. He had to go.

A tight hold came down on his wrist. The shock coupled with the abrupt stop nearly put him on the floor. He whipped back around as fast as he could, facing Ed, who was very much awake and standing right in front of him.

“Oswald.”

If Oswald could have found his voice, he would have screamed. He had much to say, but it all seemed to leave him at that moment. All of his anger and heartbreak and joy was replaced by an overwhelming wave of terror.

Ed himself sounded steady and clear. In the pale lighting, he looked…  _ unfathomable _ . Something about him was different. Oswald couldn’t put a name to it, but there was something incomprehensible about him. There was something wrong. Very wrong.

Oswald wrenched his arm back with a gasp. He fled and he didn’t stop running until he locked himself in his bedroom. He sat, sleepless, with his back to the heavy door until sunrise.

He outright refused to meet with Strange that morning. The doctor had to track him down to update him on Ed’s condition.

“Mr. Nygma appears to be doing just fine. He’s already up and walking, which is a very good sign. I wasn’t expecting him to recover so quickly.”

Pride laced his tone. He was very pleased with his work. Oswald sucked an angry breath through his teeth. If his limbs weren’t weighed down with exhaustion, he would have caved Strange’s skull in. How could he be so boastful of the thing he created? The man he very well may have ruined?

He let Strange go that day. Though killing him would have been more cathartic, he was a useful asset to have in one's arsenal. Oswald arranged for someone to bring Edward a new set of clothes. He was still wearing what could have been his death shroud, severely wrinkled from the days spent comatose. Oswald didn’t dare to deliver them himself. He was still coming to terms with what had happened. Ed was alive, but staring at him felt like he was face-to-face with a corpse. He went to many wakes as a child with his mother. When any acquaintance of hers passed, no matter how vague, she and Oswald would put on their Sunday best and go to pay their respects. He recalled their former neighbour, Mrs. Healy. At her viewing, a young Oswald peered curiously into her silk-lined casket. He only saw her days before she died, but he didn’t recognize the woman he was looking at now. He had even asked his mother if they were in the right room. Perhaps the funeral home had mixed up the names on the sign outside. His mother just hushed him and that was the end of that conversation.

Ed was too clean, too false. Like he had been embalmed. Formaldehyde flooded his stagnant veins. The colour in his face was painted on with a brush and a careful hand, his lips sutured shut from the inside. His clothes didn’t fit right, but no one would be at his casket long enough to notice. The effort gone through to make him look alive only served to remind Oswald that he was dead.

He busied himself more and more, injecting himself into any projects he could. He worked through the night so he wouldn’t be tortured by horrible dreams. He worked until he collapsed. Anything to occupy his thoughts. He ceased his daily visits with Ed and ceased thinking about him altogether. They were in opposite wings of City Hall; Oswald carving out his place in the anarchy and Ed doing God-knows-what. He had a few books and records to read over, but that would only entertain him for so long. He was supposed to be resting, a rule set by Strange. His experimental treatment left him in an unstable condition, but Oswald feared that he wasn’t going to abide by this suggestion. He had caught word of Ed wandering about from room to room, searching for something to quell his boredom. On the rare occasions when Oswald passed through the largely empty wing, he could hear Ed muttering and yelling at nothing. Oswald could never pick up a word he said, but he sounded frantic and furious. Ed told him once that he was a difficult patient to care for, but Ed’s persistent inquisitiveness and volatile mental state would prove that he likely wouldn’t be much better.

Oswald became distant, disconnected from himself. His body was sore and heavy, but his mind sharp, sharp as it could be, fixated on the task at hand. The less he slept, the more he worked, the more was done. He only closed his eyes in brief intervals, just enough to keep him conscious. His foot soldiers were setting up operations at the factory and recruiting any able-bodied refugees to join their ranks. The factory would produce enough ammunition to establish Oswald as one of the biggest players in the reborn Gotham, should all go according to plan. At this rate, he would have control over this whole city in no time at all. He was going to be Gotham’s saviour.

On another lonesome evening, Oswald was working by the light of his desk lamp when the power flickered and shut off. City Hall had electricity, but blackouts were both commonplace and endlessly inconveniencing. Oswald let out a groan and took the flashlight from the top drawer. He was about to return to what he had been doing, but something caught his attention. 

Someone was walking past his door. 

Light, deliberate footfall trailed by carefully. It wasn’t an employee of his; he would easily recognize the sound of their lumbering boots on the wooden floor. Strange should have been long gone at that point, so it couldn’t possibly be him. Anyone seeking him out wouldn’t be creeping around in the dark unless they meant him harm. There was nothing else down this corridor, aside from Oswald and now, his unexpected visitor.

He got up, flashlight in one hand and switchblade in the other. He wasn’t a coward in the face of potential intruders. He moved into the hallway as quietly as possible. He couldn’t be sure of which direction they came from or which direction they went. His flashlight didn’t show anything either way, so he picked at random and went right.

Oswald tried to muffle his signature gait, shuffling over creaking floorboards. Whoever was there, they knew he was approaching. The cry of rusty hinges made him jump and draw his weapon. He readied himself for a fight, but it was all for naught. An old door drifted weakly on its loosened frame. The storage closet it opened to reveal was empty. Oswald chuckled at himself. The lack of sleep was making him paranoid. Maybe he would allow himself a night’s rest once he returned to his quarters.

He turned and immediately found himself pressed against a thin figure. This time, he did have the voice to scream— and scream he did. His flashlight slipped from his hold as Ed caged him against the wall with his own body.  _ Was he always this tall?  _

“Oswald,” he whispered, failing to silence him.  _ Why can I see him so clearly through the dark? _

Though Oswald struggled, Ed didn’t seem fazed. It was like he was sleepwalking. His expression was schooled and unaffected. Oswald spluttered, not a word to offer him. Ed offered some words of his own instead.

“You  _ left _ me.”

That astounded Oswald enough to stall him. With Ed so close, he could see a dull light emanating from him. He could smell the chlorine scent that reeked from his pores. He could see the supernatural glint in his eyes and—  _ were his teeth always that white? Were they always that sharp? _

“Wh—”

“You left me alone,” Ed growled once again. “To fester in my own mind.”

“What have they done to you?” Oswald choked out in a panicked exhale.

This was his fault. Oswald employed Strange because he couldn’t stand the idea of living without Ed, even if he refused to admit it to himself. But this wasn’t Ed. Ed died in the Narrows. The fingers encircling Oswald’s wrist were frigid, ice-cold breath mixing with his own rushed panting.

But if Ed was dead... what in the hell was this thing?

Oswald revved to life. He jerked his hand free and pushed his blade to Ed’s throat. Ed (or not-Ed or whatever it was) swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple grazing the sharp steel. Oswald caught the fleeting flash of fear crossing his face. It reassured him that this shell of the man he hated and loved all at once was mortal and, like most, more than eager to cooperate under the threat of death.

“You’re not Ed,” he hissed.

“Oswald—”

“No!”

Oswald pushed harder, piercing Ed’s flesh with the edge of his knife. The parting skin yielded a steady rivulet of blood that soaked into Ed’s collar. It was almost black, too thick with a sickening green tinge. Oswald couldn’t conceal his disgust.

“I don’t know what you are, but you are not Ed.”

The imitation winced but regained his footing with a grimace. He tilted his chin up.

“Who’s to blame for that?”

“Shut up.”

Oswald refused to relinquish his control of the situation. He refused to waver. He stood strong and steadfast. He and Edward were toe-to-toe. An impasse had been reached.

“I needed to know.”

“What?”

“Why did you do it?”

Oswald didn’t know if Ed was referring to his resuscitation or something that had occurred in Oswald’s absence.

“Would you prefer it if I left you to die?” Oswald cleverly avoided the question entirely.

“You locked me away. You left me.”

_ So you’ve said,  _ Oswald’s impatience was getting the best of him.

“Something— something happened. I can feel my body changing on a molecular level. I can feel the bacteria on my skin. Something is wrong and it’s your fault. You did this. I don’t even know who I am. I was better. I was somebody. I was whole and you _ broke  _ me.”

Ed went lax, weakened, not so much as flinching at the shallow laceration Oswald’s knife carved into him. His scorching rage made way for desperate defeatism. In his strangeness, he was tragic, like a creature mutated and begging to be put out of its misery. Oswald didn’t want to fall victim to what very well could be another tactic of manipulation. Ed was well aware of Oswald’s vulnerabilities and had no issue exploiting them in the past. Oswald wouldn’t be playing his game again. Still, he slackened. He rested his weapon flat on Ed’s chest.

“No, Ed. I… You were dead. You were gone. I had to do something. Anything,” Oswald croaked, raw and feeble. But he couldn’t let Ed see how much this all had torn him apart. He curled his lip and wrinkled his nose. To even the playing field, he made himself into a beast.

“I’m always cleaning up after you. You can’t even be trusted to keep yourself alive.”

“I’ve never asked you to do anything for me.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to do when you screw up? You would be dead without me. It’s your own fault that this happened.”

“How is it my fault?” Ed’s fire was back, stoked by Oswald’s combative tone. Oswald was glad. Anger was easy. It came so naturally. Sorrow, love, and the fruitless pursuit of forgiveness only served to complicate.

“Because you’re an idiot who couldn’t think critically if your life depended on it— which it does!”

“Oh, like you can talk. You never consider the consequences of any action you take!”

“Well, I’m currently at the forefront of Gotham’s future and you got eviscerated by your most recent obsession and now, you owe your life to the man you loathe, so I think I’m doing something right.”

Ed slammed his fist into the wall, a spiderweb of cracks going through the stone. His strength was alarming, but Oswald only grinned. Ed seemed to grow larger, more imposing there in front of him. His veins ran dark, discoloured lines over his face and down his neck. His new appearance reflected what Oswald saw when under the effects of Crane’s fear toxin. But Oswald had changed as well since then. He was no longer consumed and defined by fear. Was he still afraid of the man before him? Absolutely, but Ed didn’t have to know that. Oswald held his knife tighter in his sweating palm.

“There’s the Edward I know,” he sneered, spit gathering at the corners of his mouth. “The only thing that’s changed is whatever Strange did to you. You’re still as fragile and insecure as before. Now, you’re just a monster, filled with poison!”

Ed reared back, aiming his fist at Oswald’s head. Oswald braced himself for the impact, for Ed to prove his point. It never came.

“No,” he said.

Oswald cracked an eye open. Ed’s arm had fallen to his side. He stepped back.

“I might not know who I am or what I am. I may never know, but you… you don’t know either.”

“I know you better than anyone, better than yourself. I mean, that’s not really saying much though, is it?” Oswald followed him, moving forward. He stared him down defiantly.

“And I don’t care what you are. You will always be the same man to me.”

The implication of his own statement took its time dawning on Oswald. No matter how it was intended, it came out much more affectionate than he wanted. Ed could tear him down, torture him, drag him through hell— Ed had done all of that, but it didn’t change how Oswald saw him. Nothing could change that.

“But next time,” he quickly continued, “if I see you creeping around here, I won’t be so merciful.”

Ed opened his mouth to say something, but Oswald was already walking away.

“Oswald!”

He didn’t turn back. He folded his hands in front of him to stop them from shaking. He could sense a predatory stare locked on him. He was convinced he would soon hear Ed chasing him down at superhuman speeds before pouncing on him and ripping him to pieces, shredding muscle and gnawing on bone. When Oswald finally completed the seemingly endless journey to his room, he could finally exhale the breath he had been holding for so long.

Though his sanity pleaded, again he did not sleep.

For all of Ed’s allusions to entrapment, he remained at City Hall. He ate the food he was given, wore the clothes Oswald had tailored for him, and stayed in his own designated wing. To preserve the same standard of temporary normalcy, Oswald tried to avoid him as he had before. Ed’s very presence gave Oswald a chill that pierced him through to the marrow. Every time he blinked, he saw Ed’s face in the dark. The satin glow on his skin, his gaunt appearance, his dishevelled hair falling over his luminescent gaze. On top of the striking beauty he already possessed, there was something new. It terrified and enticed Oswald both together. His appearance was ethereal and monstrous. It made Oswald’s blood run cold. It burned into the back of his brain. He was going mad, he was certain of it— for he was seeking Ed out before the week’s end.

Oswald said that Ed was just the same as he had always been, but he couldn’t know that for sure. He was familiar with what Strange’s tinkering could do to a man. There was a strong chance that he was searching for a stranger that evening. He imagined his guards discovering his mangled corpse splayed out beneath Ed’s crouching form, Ed soaked in blood as he pulled Oswald’s innards from his shattered ribcage and brought them to his salivating mouth. The thought didn’t stop him. It hardly slowed him as he approached the sound of manic whispering. He startled when Ed let out a yell. It wasn’t an exclamation of pain, rather a frustrated shout. There was no worse time for Oswald to come with the desire to see him. He idled outside of Ed’s room to listen further. His outburst was followed by nothing, not so much as a whisper. Even his incessant pacing came to an end.

Ed knew he was there. Of course, he knew.

With no point in hiding anymore, Oswald straightened and pushed through the door. The lights were all out. Only the dim light from the window outlined Ed’s silhouette. Ed could probably smell the apprehension off of him, but there was no way in Hell that Oswald would show it in his expression. He carried himself with his customary haughty disposition. He kept a clear distance between himself and Ed— just enough to maintain his shaky composure. Ed was first to speak once again. It was the last thing Oswald expected him to say.

“Your cane. You aren’t using it.”

Oswald hoped his disbelief wasn’t so obvious.

“O-Oh, no, I’ve been wearing a brace.”

“I can see that.”

“Gotham has changed. I cannot afford such glaring weaknesses.”

“Does it hurt? Your leg, I mean.”

Ed was full of surprises today. Oswald’s chest constricted pathetically at the prospect of Ed still being concerned for his well being.

“Does that matter at all? To anyone?” he countered. “To you?”

Ed chewed the skin of his thumb in the place of an answer. Oswald nearly scolded him for the habit.

“I thought you were doing this to torture me,” he mumbled. His voice still seemed like a deafening roar to Oswald.

“I know what you think of me, but I had hoped you didn’t regard me so poorly.”

“There's one thing I can’t figure out. It’s the only missing piece.”

“Only the one?”

“What is your motive, Oswald? You find me, you have Strange do something to me, you keep me here, and for what?” His head fell to a puzzled tilt. Oswald wanted to add that there was absolutely nothing stopping Ed from leaving. He was free to go whenever he pleased, but he decided against interrupting him.

“Are you planning on killing me? Using this as leverage? Driving me insane? If that’s what it is, it’s working. Is that what you want to hear?”

“No, Ed, never,” he held his hands up in a way he hoped was disarming. “I would never. Despite our past, I would never do something so beastly to you.”

“Then why? I— I don’t remember much about the day the bridges blew. The last clear thing in my memory is when I decided to… dissuade Lee from leaving. It’s just foggy after that. It's just pain.”

Oswald could see Ed creeping up on an unsuspecting Lee, knife hidden behind his back. A petty, disrespectful way to approach a murder, Oswald thought. Yet Oswald couldn’t help but be petty and disrespectful now.

“Love is about sacrificing your happiness for someone else, isn’t it?”

Ed gave him a look that would send a lesser man running. Oswald wasn’t much, but he wasn’t about to be bested by Edward Nygma. He would stand proud until the barrel of Ed’s gun was to deliver his last rites upon him, branded in heat and smoke.

“Easier said than done, I suppose,” Oswald didn’t allow Ed to defend himself. He knew he was a hypocrite for holding Oswald to a standard he vehemently preached but had never practiced.

“Is she here too? Or did you leave her there to rot?” Ed questioned. Oswald was unable to tell which was the right answer. He was far from pleased to hear Ed still inquiring about Lee.

“She was here. Left some time ago.”

_ She was glad to see you dead. She doesn’t love you. She never did. Not like I do. _

“And you don’t know where she is?”

“Do you want to get yourself killed again? Because I won’t be rushing to your side this time.”

Oswald wanted to correct himself then. He didn’t rush to Ed’s side. Well, he did, but did Ed need to know that? Oswald had wept until his eyes burned, pleading with Strange through the phone, promising him anything,  _ anything _ , to bring Edward back.

“Just curious,” Ed returned to worrying his thumbnail.

“Leave the woman alone, Edward.”

“I said I was only curious. I can’t leave here anyway.”

“You’re not trapped here. You can leave.”

“No, I can’t, because I still don’t know why you tried to save me.”

Oswald’s eyebrows pinched together. He felt a lump growing in his throat.

“You know why. You know that I care about you. I always have.”

Ed shrank back, ever so slightly. It was a reply he wasn’t anticipating.

“You saved me. Even after you gave up your revenge for me. Even after I betrayed you.”

Oswald nodded, something close to shame shadowing his face.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you again. I didn’t mean to make you into this. I was so afraid of losing you and now…”

Ed went over to him, glided, almost, over the dusty floor. Oswald’s heart thrummed in his ears.

“Are you afraid of me?” asked Ed.

“No, but I’m terrified of what Strange did to you and—” Oswald swallowed hard— “and of what might happen now.”

“But you’re here.”

“Of course I am.”

“Why? It flies in the face of all logic.”

“I’ve never been known for making good choices, so there’s no point starting now.”

Ed actually chuckled, a rattling sound bubbling up from low in his stomach.

“No, I guess not.”

His guarded look softened. It was the same awestruck half-smile from when Ed was his chief of staff. Oswald could pretend it was affection. He had back then.

“You wish you left me to die, don’t you?”

“I wish I left you as you were. I wish I didn’t try to cheat death for my own selfish desires. I wish I could have let you rest, but I couldn’t, Ed. I couldn’t. I would do anything, I would defy God to have you back. I can’t imagine living without you.”

Oswald’s honesty was forlorn and hopeless. His words couldn’t have meant a thing to Ed. He didn’t jump when Ed’s fingertips moved through the hair at the back of his neck. He prepared for the fatal attack— the bite, the crush, the rip. He accepted his fate with dignity. He didn’t blink. Ed was going to hold his stare as he killed the Penguin, his tormentor, once and for all.

“There is no God here,” said Edward.

Oswald slowly reached out to touch his chest. This time, Ed didn’t push him away. Instead, he leaned closer. A final permittance of comfort.

“Only you and I.” 

Then, he kissed him. And kissed him.

And Oswald was alive.

**Author's Note:**

> I am 100% open to adding a more romantic epilogue because I'm dogshit at endings as yall can see.
> 
> any feedback is appreciated!!!!


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